


On A Quiet Morning In The Last Forest In Brooklyn

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Barnes Family, Becca Barnes is Badass, Brooklyn, College, Cooking, F/F, F/M, Food, Genderfluid En Dwi Gast | Grandmaster, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), M/M, Mild Sexual Content, New York City, Public Transportation, Sam Wilson Can Talk to Birds, Science, Shamelessly Mashing MCU Characters With Comic Characters And Letting Them All Be Friends, Shopping, Sleepy Cuddles, Smoking, Therapy, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 18:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17813588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: “We said we wanted to keep the guest list short,” protested Steve. “Just close family, and close friends. Nothing expensive, nothing... tacky.”“As if you’re one to complain about tacky,” countered Tony. “I got my invitation by group text. Who does that?”...in which Bucky and Steve get married.





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> At last, my written contribution to the Stucky AU Bang! Massive thanks to [calendulae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calendulae) for the beta, and [velvetjinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetjinx) for the illustration. And thanks to my lovely readers for reading!

“What the hell were you thinking, Rogers?” Tony stormed into the apartment. So much for a quiet morning run, thought Steve, discreetly setting down his water bottle and earbuds. “No engagement announcement, no engagement _photoshoot_ , no engagement party, and then you want to – what, not invite anybody to the wedding?”

“We said we wanted to keep the guest list short,” protested Steve. “Just close family, and close friends. Nothing expensive, nothing... tacky.”

“As if you’re one to complain about tacky,” countered Tony. “I got my invitation by group text. Who does that?”

“We do,” said Steve, settling heavily against the arm of the sofa.

“Look, like it or not, you’re a public figure – ”

“Retired,” Steve reminded him, arms crossed.

“Retired, sure, but still.” Tony kicked his shoes off, making his way into the kitchen. “People are going to expect that Captain America’s wedding is gonna be a big deal.”

“You mean, you’re disappointed you can’t use Captain America’s highly personal life milestone as an opportunity to make _you_ look good,” suggested Steve, following Tony into the kitchen. He retrieved the good Wakandan coffee from the cupboard, while Tony filled the coffee pot with water. “And if other people want to expect things we’re not willing to give, then... let them expect.”

“Hey,” said Tony, carefully scooping a measure of grounds into the metal filter. “Maybe I’m just worried you’ll look back on all this one day and regret not having a proper wedding.”

“Maybe we just want a picnic in the park,” Steve told him, setting the pot on the stove to boil.

“You’re sure about this,” said Tony; an observation more than a question.

“Yeah,” Steve smiled. “We really are.”

Tony considered Steve’s expression. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk about what you _do_ have planned.”

\---

At the sound of voices far too gregarious for any time before seven in the morning, Bucky grudgingly dragged himself from the bed, shuffling into his slippers. He peered around the doorframe just enough to find Steve (in his dorky running shorts) and Stark (in what was no doubt an incredibly overpriced jogging suit) engaged in some sort of lighthearted disagreement. He waved, silently but forcefully, to get Steve’s attention.

“Of course we have a colour scheme?” Steve shouted unconvincingly, as he made his way into the bedroom. “Let me just get my phone so I can show you!”

“What the hell is Stark doing here?” whispered Bucky, as Steve desperately thumbed through his phone, presumably in search of an acceptable swatch he could pretend matched their wholly unplanned and presently nonexistent wedding decor. “Please don’t make me talk to him.”

“Wait,” puzzled Steve, “I thought you guys were friends now. Did – Buck, did Tony say something to you? Did he – ”

“No, no, we’re – Steve, we’re fine,” Bucky assured him, sleepily stretching his soft grey cardigan snugly over his shoulders. Bucky liked Tony, but there were very few people besides Steve that he unreservedly still liked before dawn. “I’m just not awake yet. I’m not ready to... people.”

“Of course I won’t make you... people,” Steve agreed, drawing Bucky in for a quick kiss.

“Thanks,” Bucky blushed as Steve padded back into the living room. “I think I’m gonna go get a coffee.”

Bucky could just about hear Stark inquiring as to the whereabouts of Steve’s beloved husband-to-be, despite Steve’s protestations, but by the time Tony was poking his head round the bedroom door, Bucky was already out the window.

\---

Kate had not slept. An outbreak of henchmen kicking off right outside the pizza place where she and Clint had just so happened to be picking up dinner had seen to that. How was she still so surprised at how tiny New York City actually was?

It was a good four in the morning or so by the time the sorry pair dragged themselves back to the apartment, tenderly dressed each other’s wounds, and collapsed into the sofa to watch Columbo until Clint finally crashed, just before dawn. Kate, determining that a job well done warranted a suitable reward, snuck out as quietly as she could (leaving a hastily scribbled post-it tacked to the coffee pot) and was presently attempting to retain consciousness long enough to order a “healthy breakfast” for herself and her person, and stumble into the right subway station to get safely home again. Her limbs felt like an over-gelatinated 1960s-style meat salad, and she was fairly sure the bags under her eyes were now less of the tasteful clutch purse variety, and more a parade of oversized suitcases lumbering along the baggage reclaim carousel after an especially overbooked set of flights all descend upon the arrivals terminal at Newark all at once. Yes, she thought, her baggage was so bad it was relegated to Jersey.

If Kate’s baggage was Newark, Bucky’s baggage was JFK, LaGuardia, and a handful of pokey municipal airports in Connecticut. As far as she could tell, he still was wearing pyjamas, but despite their both being in no fit state to socialize, it was by no means the first time they had seen each other at their mutual worst. He looked like a bear dragged from hibernation two weeks early: sleepy, a little dazed, but not the grumpy sort of tired Clint inevitably would be when she came home.

“Heyyy, Brooklyn Boy,” she said, smiling behind her sunglasses. How. Was. New. York. City. So. Tiny.

“What the hell?” puzzled Bucky. “Uhh, LA Lady. Hey.”

“Hey,” she replied, greeting him with a warm hug. “Why are you... pyjamas and slippies.”

“There was a Stark in my apartment,” he told her, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind his ear. “I’m still asleep.”

Kate fingergunned in sympathy. Tony was like the sister she never had; or rather, the sister she did have, except better. Like a sister who liked going to yoga classes together and never took their dad’s side in arguments. It was great, apart from the handful of times he “forgot” the unspoken rule that unexpected social calls were to be for emergencies only, and between the civilised hours of nine in the morning and eight at night, and never before noon on weekends.

“What’s your excuse?” he asked her.

“Long story,” she shrugged. “Hero business.”

“... doughnuts?”

“Okay,” she conceded. “Also doughnuts. It’s been a long night.”

“Doughnuts?” inquired the barista, who had been patiently waiting for someone to order something since about as soon as Kate had come in.

“Yeah, hey, could I grab a latte, a black americano... and two cinnamon doughnuts please,” she smiled, beaming far too hard to be casual. The barista shrugged, and got to work.

“Cinnamon, huh,” Bucky smiled.

Kate shrugged. “It’s been a long night.”

“I got vanilla glazed,” replied Bucky, waggling the precious paper bag in his hand. “Listen, I’ll... I can watch your doughnuts while you nap, if you need to... nap.”

“That’s what the coffee’s for, dummy,” Kate chuckled, settling into a cozy seat by the window. “But I’ll keep you company until you’re sure your apartment’s safe and free of visitors.”

Bucky set his breakfast down, and joined her at the table. “Thanks.”

“So,” Kate smiled, taking a generous bite of her doughnut, “what’s the colour scheme for your wedding?”

\---

It was impossible for Clint to say when exactly he had fallen asleep, or how long he had been asleep for; indeed, all he knew for certain was that it was not nearly enough.

“Ughhhhhhhhhhh,” said Kate, stumbling in the front door.

“Katie Kate?” Clint called out from the sofa, still blurry. “Why are you – where – ”

“Doughnuts,” replied Kate, dropping a bag into Clint’s lap. The paper was just starting to go translucent: that was the mark of a good doughnut if ever there was one.

“Bless your beautiful heart.” She kissed him softly, lips sticky with cinnamon sugar, then placed a markedly tepid coffee cup on the table before him. “Caffeinate, Hawkeye. I’m taking you shopping.”

“But Kaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate.” Surely, he thought, they had a few years in them yet, before they became one of those elderly retired couples who went out unnecessarily early and stood outside of shops for upwards of half an hour, waiting for them to open. Assuming, of course, it was still early in the morning, which was exactly what it felt like. Even Lucky was still curled up on his comfy dog bed, probably dreaming of chasing pigeons, eating garbage, living his best life.

“You know who I just ran into?” she asked him. Clint shook his head. “Bucky Barnes, that’s who. He’s getting married. We’re invited.”

“Yes.” Clint knew this. He had seen the group text. It was impossible to begrudge his friends a good time, though his own feelings about marriage were justifiably ambivalent, considering. But that was a personal failing, he thought, not to be projected onto others.

“You don’t own any nice clothes.”

“Hey!” protested Clint. He did too. “I own, there’s a, I mean, uhh... okay, this is gonna sound crazy, but if we take an already coffee-stained dress shirt and then soak the whole thing in coffee, ta-daa! Deliberately beige dress shirt that also smells delicious?”

Kate’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, Clint. That’s so crazy.”

“... that it just might work?” he asked.

“No.”

“Oh.” The coffee was smooth, and having the intended effect, at least.

“I mean, I don’t own any nice nice clothes either,” she told him, slumped against the kitchen counter. “You know I kind of... ebayed everything. And we can’t show up to our friends’ wedding in something that looks like it was fished out of a dumpster behind Rainbow.”

“Hey, come on, Katie – we can have nice things.” Sometimes Clint forgot that for most of Kate’s life, she had never had to worry about money. Clint could still remember the metallic tang of cold, slightly expired supermarket value range canned spaghetti, from the time between one foster home or another, when he and Barney lived off of nothing but a case of the stuff for a solid month. These days – though Clint was sure they did not need to – Kate always stashed away a few extra packets of sugar from the coffee shop, and a few extra packets of salsa verde when they got burritos. There was a dedicated drawer for them in the kitchen.

“I know we can,” she said, dumping his jacket in his lap. “That’s why we’re going shopping.”

\---

“I have a piano keys tie you can borrow.”

“Wade, no,” protested Clint. “I don’t even know how to play the piano. I don’t want to live a lie.”

Clint had not touched his curly fries for a solid minute, which Wade took as an obvious sign that he did not intend to finish them; that was, however, until he found his hand being soundly swatted away when he made a move to help with that.

“All right, all right,” conceded Wade, cradling his wounded hand with (slightly) mock dejection.

“I’m still thinking about getting the purple suit,” he mused, shoving curly fries in his mouth faster than he could chew them. “The one that Kate said makes me look like a 1960s villain.”

“It does,” agreed Wade, “but a sexy 1960s villain.”

The suit in question was a slim-fitting, two-button blazer and slacks, in a rich shade of aubergine with a subtle check print. It was hot shit. Clint was hot shit. Why, perhaps in another timeline, in another universe where they were not both otherwise spoken for, there could have been something between them beyond that one time they made out in Papaya King.

Perhaps it was the lighting, but Wade was sure that Clint was blushing.

“A sexy villain?” he asked.

“Yeah, you know,” Wade took a loud sip of his milkshake, “the kind of villain that makes you want to be part of their redemption arc, show them the power of love, that kind of thing.”

“I can work with that, I guess,” Clint shrugged.

“Ok, now do me!” enthused Wade. “I don’t wanna upstage the grooms, but I’ve got this slinky little number with a neckline so plunging it would make Nomad blush.”

“Who’s Nomad?” asked Clint.

“Ah,” Wade remembered. Different timeline. “Different timeline, it’s not important.”

“... okay.”

\---

“Got a question for you,” said Steve, thumbing idly through an old issue of Good Housekeeping that sat atop a stack of magazines on Wade’s coffee table. Wade’s eyes lit up with delight.

“Ohh, oh Stevey baby, I thought you’d never ask,” he beamed.

“I... haven’t asked yet,” replied Steve.

“Sure, sure,” said Wade, “but we both know the question in your heart right now, and the answer is unreservedly yes.”

Steve drew a sharp, perplexed breath. “Wade,” he said carefully, “let’s just be totally clear about what you think you’re saying yes to.”

“Of course I’ll be your best maid man of honour, silly!” Wade threw his arms around Steve hard enough to knock a bit of the wind out of him. For a moment, Steve did not know what to say.

“I was going to ask if you’d tried that Japanese Buddhist restaurant in Midtown, but okay,” he said.

Wade’s grip loosened considerably, but not so far as to break the embrace.

“Oh,” he said, a notable pang of dejection in such a small word. “Tasting menu. Kind of pretentious.”

Steve cringed. “Sounds fancy,” he concluded. “What about that place you’ve been talking about that does the, you know, the big pancake?”

“With the mayonnaise and special sauce,” Wade sighed. “It’s on east 9th. Yeah, we can go there.”

Steve sighed too. When he and Bucky had decided to marry – or rather, inadvertently interrupted each other’s semi-planned proposals – they resolved as soon as possible to host a very small affair: no guest list the size of the phone book, no string quartet, no pyrotechnics, and absolutely no speeches. But Wade was his friend, one of his very best, and if it meant that much to him, Steve could hardly begrudge him such a small gesture.

“Okay,” said Steve. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure, sure,” replied Wade, painting on a veneer of easy composure.

“Wade Wilson, would you be my best maid man of honour?”

Wade’s entire being seemed to spark back into his usual state of bouncing enthusiasm.

“Honey, you’re gonna be so glad you asked.”

\---

“I’ve got stupid news.”

Stupid news was better than bad news, and better than just news, thought Bucky, and better that Steve knew how helpful it was to preface his news not just with the fact that he had news, but with the kind of news it was. At the very least, it kept Bucky from feeling the need to keep one eye on the emergency rucksack he had packed by the living room window. Stupid news was fine. Steve kicked off his sneakers, letting them drop to the floor with a soft clatter.

“Stupid news, huh?” asked Bucky, fastening his notebook, and welcoming Steve onto the sofa beside him. “How bad is it?”

“I asked Wade to be my best maid man of honour,” Steve told him, settling in against Bucky’s side. Bucky placed a gentle kiss among the fluffy tangle of Steve’s hair. There was an unfamiliar note above the clean scent of his usual shampoo; that pleasantly savoury sort of smell that lingered sometimes after visiting a restaurant.

“Thought we weren’t doing all that... stuff.” Bucky had been fighting off the nightmare visions of floral displays and caterers and large groups of people since he first handed his mother’s engagement ring to Steve: of course, it barely fit on his pinkie, let alone his ring finger, so he strung it onto a delicate chain, and wore it close to his heart. Like a goddamn sap.

“Yeah, but you try saying no to that guy’s little face.”

Bucky shrugged. One little concession to make one friend happy, he told himself. This was fine. The more he thought about it, the more he could see the positive side to this. He could see the positively joyous side to it, in fact.

“You know,” he smiled, “Sam’s gonna have a goddamn conniption when he finds out.”

Steve sat bolt upright, sending Bucky tumbling sideways into a pile of throw cushions.

“Oh god,” he said gravely. “What have I done?”

Bucky could not help but laugh. That was Steve all right, the boy with a heart the size of the combined land mass of all of the states of America. It was one of the hottest things about him. Bucky leaned forward again, distracting Steve from his needless concern with a kiss, and then another, and then another, until Steve’s hands found their way to fumbling with Bucky’s shirt buttons, and Bucky forgot entirely that he had put a pie in the oven before Steve got home.

The pumpkin was unusually caramelised, but edible.


	2. Wednesday

Bucky normally visited on Saturdays, not Wednesdays, but Becca was not about to complain about an extra morning in the company of her brother. After all, visitors were somewhat further and fewer between these days, Deborah had her job, George had the super secret project he was working on, and Allen and the kids only came back to the city for the big holidays.

She steadied the heel of her palm against the plunger, and squeezed the steeping coffee grounds down. She knew it would be easier on her joints to switch to instant, but life was too short to drink shitty coffee.

“Would you get a couple of mugs down from the middle shelf?” she asked him.

“Get ’em yourself,” he scoffed, “lazybones.”

“Fine,” she replied, “but only if you promise to carry me everywhere on piggyback when I break my remaining good hip doing it.”

“All right, all right,” he said, fetching two mugs and placing them on the table. They were of the sort of mismatched crockery that came with a long life and a lot of coffee. The brightly coloured glazes had long since been etched away by a too-efficient dishwasher, leaving an almost ghostly trace of the memory of the box of chocolates or can of coffee with which they had come free with purchase.

“Look at you, my little big brother, all grown up,” she smiled, decanting the coffee into the mugs. “Mom would be so proud of you.”

Bucky squinted at her. “Mom? She’d tell me to get a goddamn haircut.”

“Oh, as if our mother would have ever said goddamn,” countered Becca. “She’d tell you to watch your mouth, that’s what she’d do.”

“Come on, Bec,” counter-countered Bucky. “It was all there in her tone. Mom’s goddamns were implied. Heavily.”

“She’d still be proud of you, even if she’d tell you to smarten up.”

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said. “Now where the hell are my glasses?”

“They’re on your head.”

Becca felt around for a moment, finding the large, heavy frames set deep within her distinguished – at least, she liked to think it was – mess of silver curls. She balanced them back on her face, and flipped open the photo album.

“That’s me and Eugene on our wedding day,” she said. His jacket sleeves were a noticeable fraction too short. Her dress was modest, and carried little of the ornate floral detail that was popular at the time, but she had always loved the way the neckline hung across her shoulders, dipping just beneath the collarbone. Their lives were so full of light and promise.

“You two look so happy,” replied Bucky.

“We really were. But... I feel sad for the people who swear that their wedding day was the happiest day of their life,” she said, with great consideration. “You’ve got so many more wonderful days to come.”

\---

George’s family was nothing if not eccentric. He lived with his mother, his grandmother, and the groundbreaking artificial intelligence his grandmother developed back in the sixties, he had a great-uncle whose almost-husband probably punched Hitler but who was also kind of a millennial, and his cousin was one of the best pole vaulters in the country. And then there was George, who had spent most of his life not doing much of anything, despite his plans, of which he had so many. On this afternoon, however, he was helping his grandmother with her work.

“Hey Grandma,” said George, painstakingly maneuvering the too-blunt scissors around the circumference of the near-impenetrable plastic prison that housed a length of cable, “when, umm, when do you think P.A.T.T.I.’s gonna upgrade to the point that she, she transcends the confines of the server that houses her, a-a-and becomes a, a swirling mass of pure consciousness?”

“Sounds like somebody’s been reading too many comic books,” Grandma chuckled, “though she’s been complaining for years about how she wishes she could try cheesecake.”

“I mean, cheesecake _is_ good,” George agreed, clambering under the desk, cable in hand. George liked cheesecake too: he liked the way it was fluffy and dense all at once, eggy and milky and sweet, though he had been known to discreetly hide the disappointing crumbly cookie crust in a napkin. He stared at the mass of wires and outlets in various colours, coded with symbols and acronyms that were, he felt, light years beyond him. “Which one of these ports does this need to be plugged into? I-I-I really don’t wanna break Aunt P.A.T.T.I.”

“There’s only one port that cable fits,” Grandma told him. “If it doesn’t feel like it fits, don’t try to make it.”

George fumbled along the dimly lit hardware, gingerly attempting port after port, until the cable clicked smoothly into place.

“Got it,” he said, crawling out from beneath the workstation, “I hope.”

“That’ll do, George,” Grandma smiled. George bounced onto the vacant desk chair, and watched quietly as she restarted the machine.

“Grandma,” said George, “how come you still went by Dr. Barnes after you married Grandpa?”

“George,” she replied, “what’s your grandpa’s last name?”

“Proctor,” said George. “Same as mine.”

“Uh-huh.” George puzzled over her response. Oh, he thought. Oh no.

“Doctor Proctor,” he said. “Oh, that’s bad. Or is it awesome?”

“It’s bad,” Grandma confirmed. “Anyway, there’s more to what makes a family than a surname in common.”

\---

“Are you doing anything next weekend?”

“Am I ever doing anything any weekend?” Wilson replied. He was surprised by the question.

“I don’t know what you do when we’re not hanging out.” George hitched up his ankle, crossed firmly over his other knee. He picked at a flap of dirt-greyed rubber that had separated from the side of his shoe.

Wilson had invited George to spend his break with him, as he could swear the tension between the falafel place and the taco place (and the one pretzel van) that stood opposite each other where he usually walked down to get lunch were thisclose to erupting into an all-out battle royale, and he knew it was the kind of thing George would want to be there for.

He was right; indeed, George was so up for witnessing a restaurant brawl (whilst eating bagels at a safe distance) that he met Wilson at the school twenty minutes early, and was now sat with him in the bleachers watching two dozen adolescents hurl soft dodgeballs at each other.

“Yeah, I’m not doing anything next weekend,” clarified Wilson. “Come on, I make gym teacher money and I live in the most expensive city in America. I might take myself out for a fried egg sandwich.”

“Okay! I’m just asking because I – I got a wedding invitation, a-a-and I’m not gonna know anybody there apart from the couple, and my mom, and my grandma, so I thought hey, maybe my old pal Wilson would get a kick out of seeing Captain America get married?” George was smiling expectantly at him.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” asked Wilson.

“No!” protested George. “Or yeah, I guess, I mean technically – ”

“It’s cool,” Wilson assured him. “Look, I’m not trying to talk you out of asking me out or anything – ”

Before he could finish his thought, two students hobbled up to the bleachers.

“Hey Coach,” said Ned, “Peter and I keep getting knocked out in the first round. Is it ok if we spend the rest of the period working on our engineering project?”

“Whatever,” shrugged Wilson. He blew his whistle for good measure. “Ok guys, let’s change things up for the last five minutes. Cavalli, Michelle, why don’t you guys get the rest of the dodgeballs out of the cupboard. Last student standing gets, I dunno, I’ll think of something.”

“I can’t believe this is your job,” said George.

“Man, I love this class,” agreed Wilson watching the chaos unfold. “How the hell do you know Captain America?”

“He’s marrying my Great-Uncle Bucky,” replied George. Wilson nodded, then thought about it, then nodded again.

“Wow, I wouldn’t have guessed Captain America was into older guys, but hey, you know, love’s mysterious like that sometimes,” he mused. “I mean, I guess he’s a pretty open-minded guy, but probably also kind of old fashioned, so he’d probably be into somebody who’s into the same old-people stuff he probably is. Do you think they sit around and eat Werthers Original and do, like, seniors’ aqua aerobics?”

“Why would they do old people stuff?” squinted George. Graciela, the quietest student in the class, stood triumphant over the writhing corpses of her enemies. Wilson made a mental note to give her the Kit-Kat he kept in his desk.

“I mean, if he’s marrying your great-uncle – ”

“No, no, no, my, my great-uncle is like... thirty-five.”

Wilson regarded him silently for a long moment. “But aren’t you, like, forty?”

“Thirty-seven!” protested George. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“So you’re older than your uncle, though.”

“Great-uncle,” George corrected him. “Yeah.”

“Wack.”

“Tell me about it.”

\---

The art studio had always been a comforting space for Steve: there was a quiet mindfulness to be found in the gentle concentration it took to draw or to paint, feeling the texture of the paper as a pencil or pen or paintbrush glided over it, and watching a blank page become filled with ideas. Despite the assertion of some strangers and acquaintances, it was not on the battlefield that Steve was at his most comfortable by any stretch; indeed, it was a pencil-smudged, light-filled room, the only noise the soft friction of pencil adding to paper.

On this particular afternoon, however, when Steve found himself in the familiar art studio, it was in an unfamiliar state of undress, whilst affecting a semi-comfortable seated pose and wishing the art department’s budget had stretched to a functioning space heater that term.

Carmen, a fellow mature student with whom he had taken several classes, was struggling to contain a giggle.

“... why,” she managed to whisper to him.

“What, this?” replied Steve, as casual as he could pretend to be without moving. “Your regularly scheduled model for this week’s out with food poisoning, ten minutes before class, and I happened to be stopping by Dr. Kenner’s office to pick up something…”

“And she turned on the charm,” nodded Carmen. “You’re a good guy, Steve.”

“What was I supposed to do, let a class get cancelled?” he asked. “Now, stop distracting the model and try to do justice to my beard.”

Steve puffed out a long breath, mindful of maintaining the casual twist of his posed spine, eyes fixed on the imaginary middle distance beyond the paint-speckled grey floor. He had had enough experience of his body being the subject of examination that a dozen blasé undergraduates attempting to capture the curvature of his thighs in charcoal was only slightly beyond his usual level of comfortable modesty. Bucky, however, would no doubt declare it an act of karma.

As it happened, it was all Bucky’s fault that Steve found himself on campus at all that day at all; Bucky would have no way of knowing this, of course, but it was. Had Steve not needed to stash his wedding gift-in-progress somewhere Bucky absolutely would not see it before the wedding, he would not have had to visit Dr. Kenner’s office to collect it that day, and would never have been enlisted, out of the very goodness of his very good little heart, to model. He hoped that if he ignored the itch buzzing behind his left shoulder, it would go away on its own.

“... is most of the fine art department,” came a voice from outside of the room, at increasing volume. “Now, I know most of you are probably thinking of going into math or science or engineering, but don’t assume that getting a fine arts degree means you’re gonna end up teaching gym, okay?”

Sounds like a campus tour, thought Steve. It must have been an open day. Steve did his best to retain his composure, despite the mounting commotion in the corridor.

“Okay guys, simmer down, it’s just a nude – oh hell no, it’s a nude Captain America,” said the teacher. From the corner of his eye, Steve could just about see the doorway, where a gaggle of nearly graduating high schoolers stood slack-jawed and staring, clambering over each other, while their hapless instructor attempted to maintain order. Steve could feel himself blushing with the intensity of a thousand suns, no doubt radiating from his cheeks, down and out from his shoulders to his toes to the tips of his ears. “That’s great, now I get to go to Captain America’s wedding and I’mma spend the entire ceremony thinking about Captain America’s muscular naked body, and that’s just – put the phone _down_ , Thompson, shield your eyes, children, move along... try not to think about Captain America’s totally normal penis.”

“Totally normal?” replied one of the obviously more outspoken students as their teacher desperately herded them away. “What’d you expect, lasers?”

Oh no, not lasers, thought Steve, breaking his pose just enough to allow himself an uncomfortable cringe. Though he supposed a laser would make aiming easier when going for a middle-of-the-night pee, not wanting to disturb Bucky’s sleep by turning on the light. Not worth it, he concluded.

Steve wondered if these were normal life-model thoughts.

“Hey, uhh, sorry about that.” The teacher was in the doorway again, attempting to avert his gaze. “You know... students.”

“Ok,” replied Steve, desperate to put the encounter behind him. “This is kind of not a great time, so uhh…”

“Like, I promise you can’t see any business from this angle,” he continued. “It’s... you’re cool, man.”

“Thanks?”

“Yeah,” nodded the teacher. “So... lookin’ forward to the wedding! George says it’s gonna be cool.”

Oh, thought Steve. So much for a small, intimate gathering of just close family and friends.

\---

_Steve,_ wrote Bucky, _ever since the first day we met, I’ve known you were really something special_

Bucky frowned. Sappy, sappy, sappy, he thought. Sappy as a goddamn thicket of maple trees, and bordering on almost as syrupy. He was by no means beyond a bit of excessively romantical thinking when it came to Steve, but this was their wedding, and he could certainly do better than greeting card platitudes.

_Steve, ever since the first day we met, I’ve known you were a lousy little shit who doesn’t_

Nope, Bucky told himself, no swears in the wedding vows. Start again. 

_Steve,_ he wrote, _I’m not saying I regret proposing to you, but if I’d known how hard it would be to write a set of vows that don’t sound like total fuckin’ schmaltz I might have reconsidered_

“Oh ferchrissakes,” he muttered into the room, squinting down at the half-scribbled out page of increasingly messy handwriting.

This should not be so hard, he thought; indeed, Bucky had been saying sentimental crap to Steve for years now, and had been thinking sentimental crap about Steve for years before that, ever since that time he saw that dumb kid moping in the alley behind the library, spitting blood and wiping his split lip on his sleeve. Now there was some sentimental imagery for a wedding vow, if ever there was one.

_I remember the first time I met you, he wrote, all bruises and gumption, and I walked you home and your mom took one look at your sorry little face and said, “has he been fighting again?” and you shuffled your feet and you mumbled yeah, and your mom just looked at me and said, “I keep telling him, he’s too good for his own good. At least it’s nice to see he’s got a friend looking out for him.” And I looked at you, and your dumb face and all the frustration packed into that little body, and I knew it all came from a place of kindness. And I thought, yeah, this punk is gonna be my friend, and I’m gonna look out for him. Because god only knows you don’t have the greatest track record of looking after yourself._

And that would have to serve as a first draft, as Steve walked in the door just as Bucky was about to give it a tentative first read.

Bucky stopped, set down his notebook, looked up, and smiled. A big, shit-eating grin the likes of which he had scarcely grinned since the nineteen goddamn thirties.

“Hey Buck,” said Steve, nudging off his shoes as he strode over to greet Bucky with a warm kiss. He tasted faintly of dark, bittersweet coffee.

“So,” said Bucky, still smiling. “Interesting day?”

“You could say that,” replied Steve, carefully leaning his portfolio against the back of the sofa. “How’s your sis-”

“Dammit, punk, when the hell were you gonna tell me you spent the afternoon naked?”

Steve blushed. Bucky wondered if it was selfish how much he loved the way Steve blushed.

“I didn’t plan to,” replied Steve.

“I know, ya big goof.” Bucky shook his head fondly. He knew Steve was nothing if not a very private person, if not quite shy. “I got a very confusing text message from Spider-Man about an hour ago.”

“Wait, Spider-Man was there?” Steve’s blush was now so luminous Bucky wondered if it was visible from space.

“I guess,” said Bucky, thumbing through his messages. “Here’s what he said. _Oh Em Gee, I am so_ – with, onetwothreefour... five o’s – _sorry I just saw your husband nude I didn’t mean to he was just RIGHT THERE_. RIGHT THERE’S in all caps, by the way. So I said, _what the hell?_ And he said, _it’s just we were on a tour of the college and there was the art department and there was a class of art students drawing a model and then it was MISTER CAPTAIN_ – again, all caps.”

Steve cradled his face in his hands. “I was just helping out somebody who needed a last-minute volunteer,” Steve told him. “Is it... please tell me it isn’t trending.”

Bucky smiled.

“ _Please_ tell me it isn’t trending,” pleaded Steve.

“I did ask,” Bucky told him, folding Steve into a hug, “and it turns out the kids these days are really conscientious about not leaking other people’s nudes. Your ass is in safe hands.”

Bucky demonstrated this by extending the hug downwards, gently cupping the cheeks of Steve’s muscular little bum in his grateful hands.

“Buuuuuuuuuuck,” blushed Steve.

“What?” protested Bucky. “It’s right there!”

Steve giggled. Bucky giggled too. It was hard to kiss while giggling, but they managed.


	3. Thursday

Loki sniffled, wiping his eyes on the hem of his jacket’s sleeve. Some Therapist Days were more difficult than others, and it was not always easy to predict which sort of day it would be. He made sure to wear something with a soft, absorbent weave on these days, just in case.

He found Barnes at a table by the window, scribbling something down in one of the sticky-noted books he always seemed to carry with him. Loki usually met him there on Therapist Day, finding him working on this or that, or just enjoying whatever it was he liked to drink, and together they would pass a pleasant hour or so before America Man finished flagrantly upstaging everyone else at the gym that morning, and the Grandmaster completed a few rounds of chess in the park. Barnes had taken the liberty of ordering Loki’s drink; indeed, one of the perks of having the appointment after his was that Barnes normally got the first round of coffees in. Loki dabbed at the corners of his eyes again, just in case, before taking the seat opposite Barnes, hoping that the onslaught of emotions that had blindsided him as he left Beth’s office had abated.

“Hey, Loki,” said Barnes, setting his pen down.

“Binky,” he replied fondly. Barnes regarded him with worrying scrutiny.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” he replied, affecting his best smile.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Loki blinked at him with deadpan incredulity. “I just did,” he replied.

“Oh yeah,” nodded Barnes. “Therapist. Gotcha.”

“So,” said Loki, quite content to change the subject, “your invitation. How exactly does Midgard do... weddings these days?”

“It’s really not gonna be a big deal.” Barnes shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. Loki tore open a packet of that brown organic sugar and sprinkled it into his drink. He was not sure was any healthier than the usual stuff, but he told himself it tasted better.

“Will I be called upon to make a speech?” he asked.

“No, nothing like that,” Barnes told him. “It’s gonna be pretty low-profile.”

“Are you sure?” Loki continued. “Dramatic reading? Interpretive dance, perhaps?”

Barnes smiled fondly, shaking his head. “I mean, if you want to make something for the picnic…”

Loki gave it a moment’s thought. Perhaps he could at least present the couple with a basket of sweetly spiced buns... while giving a dramatic speech.

“I suppose I could – ow,” he said.

There was that chafing again; this time, it was at the back of his neck, like wearing a shirt with a slightly abrasive tag that refused to sit flat between the fabric and the skin. Loki frowned. There was always a risk of drawing attention to oneself when changing in public, but he knew all too well the way the feeling grew when he was unable to attend to it, from a frustrating little chafe, into a desperate, buzzing heaviness.

“Sorry,” he said, “do you mind if I quickly slip into something a little more – ”

Barnes shrugged. Loki closed his eyes, feeling his form shift as easily as a Midgardian might shimmy into an old sweater. She gave her shoulders a little shake when it was done. She hummed happily, comfortable again.

“Oh yeah,” she smiled, “that’s better. You were saying?”

Barnes blinked a few times. “Pronouns?”

“She.”

“Got it. What the hell was I talking about?” he asked.

“Your quaint little Midgardian wedding ceremony,” she replied.

“Right,” Barnes nodded.

Barnes smiled that dreamy smile he smiled whenever America Man was mentioned, like he was away with the fairies. Loki wondered if that was what she looked like when she talked about the Grandmaster.

\---

“He said he wants to keep things low-profile,” said Loki, dragging the soft, downy duvet over their heads. The Grandmaster settled down softly against the pile of pillows beneath her.

“So... just a, uhh, modest light show?” she asked.

“My sunshine, I don’t think they’re doing a light show at all,” replied Loki.

The Grandmaster gasped. “What the hell kind of a wedding doesn’t have a light show?” she asked. “Next thing you’ll tell me they’re, they’re not even doing a roller derby.”

Loki sighed. “Oh, honey.”

“I tell ya what,” smiled the Grandmaster, “these Middle Earth people have some pretty weird ideas about, uhh, weddings. If it were my wedding, well... it’d be an, uhh, an extravaganza worthy of my stardust.”

Loki smiled softly, the faintest twinge of a blush dusting her snowy cheeks. It was the first time either of them had used the, uhh, marriage-word. The Grandmaster hoped she had not overstepped, despite knowing, more than she had ever known anything else, that what she wanted most of all in the universe was to spend all of the rest of her infinite and unending days in the company of her beloved Loki.

“You and I have both ruled over entire worlds,” mused Loki, shifting further under the burrow of exquisitely high thread-counted bedsheets, “but now? I would be content for us simply to rule together over this bed.”

“Mmm, I couldn’t agree more,” the Grandmaster purred, her palm tracing the soft curvature of Loki’s hip, following over the gentle dip of her waistline and along her ribcage, pausing to appreciate the swell of her bosom, which, if Loki’s gasp and sigh were any indication, she appreciated in turn.

Somewhere outside the warm confines of the duvet came the sound of a man clearing his throat.

“Uhh, ma’am?”

Loki and the Grandmaster poked their heads out from beneath the soft down comforter, just as much as needed in order to see. The Grandmaster squinted against the harsh lights of the showroom. The salesman stood over the bed, clipboard in hand, looking terribly uncomfortable.

“We’ll take it,” she said, “now wouldya give us, oh, let’s say, uhh... forty-five minutes?”

“Ma’am, you can’t – ”

“Go on,” said the Grandmaster, shooing the salesman away in no uncertain terms. “Go on now, scoot. There’s a good peasant. Now then, let’s see, where were we, stardust?”

“I think we were right about here,” replied Loki, demonstrating.

“Ohh geez,” the Grandmaster blushed, melting into Loki’s embrace, “I should have told him to give us an hour and a half.”

\---

Beyond the bed and the bath, it turned out, was mostly things one used in kitchens. Thor had been hoping for greater wonders of the cosmos and treasures never before seen, but on the other hand, he was reliably informed by his dear friend Stark, one could never have too many types of coffee maker, and that it would be an acceptable Midgardian wedding gift. The Grandmaster slid into his peripheral vision as he was examining an unusually expensive cone-shaped contraption.

“Now that we’re alone,” the Grandmaster began, and immediately Thor was struck with the inextricable feeling that this did not bode well, “can I, uhh, can I ask you a question about your brother?”

“Why not ask him yourself?” replied Thor.

“Well, see, the thing is, uhh, sparkles, I’ve been living in this crazy old universe since, oh, almost as long as there’s been a universe,” mused the Grandmaster, trailing the tip of his garishly painted fingernail along the curve of a generous, hourglass-shaped decanter, “but I had no idea what being in love was like, until I met Loki.”

Thor nodded. “Yes, I’m very happy for – ”

“Horniness, sure,” the Grandmaster continued, waggling his eyebrows, “but love? Well, that’s a whole other ballpark, isn’t it, uhh, sparkles?”

“Please don’t speak to me of horniness,” replied Thor, concentrating very hard on the box of Donut Shop Blend coffee pods he was holding.

“All right, all right, jeez,” the Grandmaster rolled his eyes, hands raised in acquiescence. “I’m just saying because I’m just, this whole uhh, uhh, wedding gift business we’re doing today has got me thinking and I’m uhh... I’m trying to ask for your blessing, sparkles.”

“My blessing,” repeated Thor.

“Yeah, as in…” he seemed to be struggling for the right words, “look, I dunno how this whole thing works in, uhh, Assburg, but here in the Midlands, I’ve been watching a lot of made-for-TV movies, and there’s this whole tacky thing where you’re supposed to ask your lover’s parents before you propose, not that my stardust needs anybody’s permission to do anything, but... well, since your parents are sadly no longer with us, you’re kind of the only other family he’s got, so... I guess this is just a heads-up that we might become in-laws, if I play my cards right.”

“You wish to marry my brother?” asked Thor.

“I mean, if he’ll have me, yeah,” the Grandmaster blushed. “Yeah, I think I really do.”

Thor could see nothing but hope in the Grandmaster’s eyes. Could he imagine worse futures than having the Grandmaster for a brother-in-law? Just about, he thought. And the man did make his brother happier than he had seen in many years.

“Then I wish you luck,” he smiled, patting the Grandmaster awkwardly on the arm. “Welcome to the family.”

\---

“Have you appointed a legal representative?”

Steve was startled by the question. Thor secured a towel around his waist as he followed Steve into the sauna.

“A... why,” he ventured carefully, stepping into the heady, wooded warmth of the room.

“For the negotiations,” clarified Thor, as though that had clarified anything at all. “There isn’t much time! If you are in need, I would be honoured to represent you.”

“No, Thor,” Steve stopped him. “What negotiations?”

He settled in against the comfortable wall, letting his muscles melt into the wood around him. Thor was one of the few people he knew and liked who presented a genuine athletic challenge, and never ran from the squash ball when it came flying toward him at great speed.

(Steve refused to let Tony live that one down.)

“Is it not also custom on Midgard to have legal representatives from both families negotiate the wedding gifts?”

“I... it’s really nice of you to offer, but I kind of already took care of Bucky’s wedding gift,” replied Steve.

“Ah, wonderful!” enthused Thor, clapping Steve affectionately on the shoulder. “May I ask what it is? Unless it’s private, of course. Unless you wish to share! In which case, by all means, regale me with tales of your mighty feats of sexual intimacy, my friend!”

At least in the sauna, Steve could write off the full-body blush he was feeling in that moment as the effects of abundant steam on his circulation. Yeah, he thought, that was all.

“It’s not – it’s not about sex,” he said, watching the soft plumes of steam rise from the hot rocks as Thor spooned a little water over them, “it’s, well. It’s a life-size portrait of Geraldine the goat.”

“Wonderful!” enthused Thor, with mighty, shaking laughter. “This was the little one your beloved cared for in Wakanda?”

“Yeah,” smiled Steve.

“I remember her well,” replied Thor. “For such a small creature, she had the heart of a warrior!”

“Well, she does have a real knack for headbutting people in the shins,” agreed Steve. “You think he’ll like it?”

“I’m certain he will, my dear friend.”

\---

“What kind of afternoon is it, Buck?” asked Steve, surveying the refrigerator case before them. “Cherry kombucha, or cherry cola?”

“Cola,” Bucky decreed, placing two bottles in their basket. “Pretty sure your fancy metabolism can handle the calories.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at him. “You sure that’s wise?” he asked. “We might have a wedding’s worth of leftovers to get through in a few days.”

“Oh please. We will have a dozen friends and family to foist leftovers onto, and they’re gonna like it,” countered Bucky, continuing on to the bulk whole foods. There were a staggering number of flours on offer that day: he wondered if it was too great of a risk going off-script and venturing something like amaranth or dark rye for their wedding pie, but the risk of a botched experiment at the eleventh hour was too great.

Indeed, a lesser man might have enlisted a professional baker to make his wedding cake, but Bucky was hardly lesser when it came to feeding the people he loved. It was the least he could do, and he did it well.

“Do you think everybody got the memo about the picnic being a potluck?” asked Steve, turning a glass jar of colourful sprinkles in his hands.

“We’d over-prepare just in case nobody brings anything,” Bucky agreed, scooping a few pounds’ worth of all purpose flour into the heavy, waxen paper bag.

Then he remembered: not as though he ever forgot, but sometimes the knowledge sprung back into the front of his awareness, filling his heart with warm light. He was marrying Steve.

He beamed at Steve, tears threatening to fall at any moment.

“What?” puzzled Steve. “Is it because I just farted? Because I tried really hard to keep it discreet.”

“No, dummy,” Bucky laughed, tears set free and leaving little dark puddles on their shopping. “We’re getting married.”

Steve beamed too, embracing Bucky as best he could with a heavy wire shopping basket between them.

“Yeah, we are,” said Steve, kissing Bucky’s hair. “I’m really sorry I had to mention the fact that I just farted now.”

“I did notice,” Bucky told him, “but I didn’t want to call attention to it.”

“Thanks, Buck,” said Steve. “... would it be wrong to serve egg creams at the wedding?”

“Nah, let’s get you a bottle of chocolate syrup.”


	4. Friday

Bucky had seemed skeptical when Shuri had offered to help bake for the wedding. Admittedly, while he was well aware of her scientific prowess, her technical genius, and her ability to eat things, she knew he had neither seen nor heard of her applying her skills to the kitchen.

Which was because she rarely did: she ate very well, of course, thanks to the team of chefs who fed the palace. The only exception was on holidays, when the staff had the day off, and the royal kitchens would fill with noise and family, and Mother and various aunties and uncles shouting orders at Shuri to chop onions faster or get the cumin seeds out of the frying pan before they burn, leaving her with a rudimentary knowledge of how to make enough fragrant party rice and slow-cooked lamb to probably feed the entire country a few times over. Admittedly, her experience of American-style baking was almost entirely limited to eating it, however, but eating surely fell under the guise of empirical research, and as such was basically a foundation course in how to do it.

“Baking is science,” reasoned Shuri, admiring Bucky’s abundant mise en place, “and I am very good at science. How hard could it be?”

“With all due respect,” replied Bucky, fixing his hair into an undoubtedly lopsided but convenient ponytail, “baking is an _art_.”

“You would do well to remember you are speaking to a princess of Wakanda,” she reminded him, “and sassing a princess is tantamount to treason.”

“... seriously?”

“No,” she laughed. “How do we start?”

“Pastry, starting with the flour and butter,” he said, placing in front of her a large mixing bowl. “What are weddings like in Wakanda?”

“Oh, some boring blessings and vows, then lots of dancing, lots of singing, lots of food,” she said, feeling the butter and flour crumble together into soft, cold sand between her fingertips. “Lots of leftovers. You know the only thing better than Wakandan rice is having the leftovers for breakfast the next day.”

“I can’t thank you enough for getting me the recipe,” nodded Bucky, straining an egg through his hand to catch the yolk.

“I consider it my duty as your friend,” she said, placing a sympathetic, floury hand on his arm. “I couldn’t bear the idea of you going home to nothing but your bland American boiled potatoes and boiled eggs and mayonnaise.”

“Hey,” protested Bucky, carefully grating the zest of the first of several small lemons, “actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of potato salad gets brought to the wedding. You got me there.”

“With all due respect,” she said, bringing the flour together into a crumbly dough, “I’ll pass on the leftovers.”

\---

“... can learn to create its own microprograms to assess each situation independently,” said Princess Shuri of Wakanda, clicking forward to the next slide of her presentation, “but, crucially, the microprograms can then learn to cooperate – in other words, I bypassed the compressor.”

The lecture theatre erupted in laughter. Doreen leaned closer to Nancy.

“What,” she whispered, staring in slack-jawed awe at the podium, “what did she just do.”

“Wizardry,” replied Nancy.

“Nancy, you _know_ wizards,” said Doreen. “We’re friends with wizards. That’s no wizardry.”

“Don’t say it,” Nancy implored her, sinking down in her seat.

“That’s science.”

“Oh my god.”

The rest of the Princess’ talk was equal turns enlightening and baffling. Doreen wondered if she ought to have been taking notes, but knew that any notes she took would have been incomplete thoughts and sequences of question marks.

Her Highness had just finished packing up her notes, and was taking a selfie, flanked by her unfairly glamourous security detail, when Doreen and Nancy shyly approached the front of the room.

“Nice to see you, Ms. Green!” enthused Shuri. 

“Great talk, Your Highness,” replied Doreen.

“Do you not think it was too simple?” she asked, shrugging on her jacket – a swishy, vintage pastel rainbow bomber she somehow made regal. “I wanted to be mindful that my audience did not have as many doctorates as I do, but I am afraid I may have oversimplified the ideas.”

Doreen shook her head. Doreen rarely doubted the fact that she was herself something of a smart cookie, but the gulf between a smart cookie and one of the smartest people in the world was still pretty vast, it turned out.

“Perfectly comprehensible,” she smiled her most convincing smile.

“You know, your unique ability to talk to squirrels is very interesting,” said Shuri, hopping up onto a desk, legs dangling over the floor, kicking her feet. Her sneakers were perfect. “I would very much like to take a look at your brain.”

“As long as you don’t have to remove it first,” laughed Doreen. 

Shuri doubled over with laughter, blotting the stream of tears on her sleeve.

“I was just inviting you to my lab!” she replied. “I wonder if we could apply whatever lets your brain talk to squirrels to develop a device that would enhance my brother’s ability to talk to cats. He says cats understand him, but Mister Tiddles likes to ignore him.”

“Would I like to visit your lab in Wakanda? Yeah, man!”

Nancy elbowed Doreen in the arm.

“Oh, yeah, can my best friend Nancy Whitehead come too?” Doreen continued. “She’s my best friend and a brilliant computer scientist and her knitting is really nice and I love her.”

“A best friend of Squirrel Girl is a best friend of mine,” nodded Shuri. “You are the coolest animal-friend superhero I know.”

“But your brother’s the Black Panther,” countered Doreen.

Shuri smiled. “I rest my case,” she said.

\---

Sometimes, chance seemed to be decidedly on Sam Wilson’s side. Other times, he made a concerted effort to ’happen to be in the neighbourhood’ so he could have lunch with someone cool, and he knew he could trust Squirrel Girl to know the best unorthodox-animal-companion-friendly venues. He had taken the liberty of bringing a ziploc baggie of quail’s eggs for Redwing, who was perched quite happily on his shoulder.

“Well, if it isn’t Doreen Green, the Squirrel Queen,” he smiled. “How you doin’?”

“Greetings, Sir Sam the Brave,” she replied, regally extending her hand to him. He accepted it with a dramatic bow, applying a polite kiss to her fingers.

This was the weirdest flirting Sam had ever done. If this was flirting, he thought. Were they flirting? He was sure he should have been better at this.

“Caaaaaaw,” said Redwing, which meant, “get on with it, dingus.”

“Aww, hey Redwing, how’s it going?” beamed Doreen. Redwing bowed his head in her direction, allowing her to gently pat his feathers.

“Screeeeee,” said Redwing, which meant “You should ask her to go with you to the wedding.”

“What did he say?” she asked.

“Aw, you know... bird stuff,” replied Sam, deflecting.

“Sam,” she insisted. “What did he say?”

“Yeah, about that,” replied Sam. “There’s a wedding tomorrow, and – ”

“I know!” said Doreen. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

Sam took a generous slug of his coffee. “Well, I figured if I’m going to the wedding tomorrow, and you’re going to the wedding tomorrow, and your apartment is between my apartment and the park…”

Doreen smiled, even more than Sam thought it was possible for Doreen to smile. It was infectious. “Are you asking me to go to the wedding with you?”

“Apparently,” agreed Sam.

“Hey, that means we each only have to pay half the cab fare,” she shrugged.

“Oh, I wasn’t gonna take a cab,” Sam told her. “How would you like to make a more... dramatic entrance?”

“You’re gonna fly us in,” nodded Doreen.

“I was gonna fly us in,” confirmed Sam.

“If you think we can convince Tippy Toe and Redwing to call a truce, I’m in,” she said.

“Caaaaaaaw, caaaaaaaaaw,” said Redwing, which meant “Ugh, if I have to, I guess.”

\---

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” said Sam, dragging Steve out the door, “you’re not the kind of guy who wants a traditional bachelor party, with the booze you can’t get drunk on, objectifying women who are just trying to pay off their student loans, uhh... I dunno, man, I don’t like bachelor parties either. Do they play poker maybe? Poker’s cool.”

“So... where are we going then?” asked Steve, as he allowed himself to be led down the stairs and into the neighbourhood.

“Your actual bachelor party,” clarified Sam, which clarified nothing.

“But you just said that you hate bachelor parties and I hate bachelor parties,” reasoned Steve, fishing his Metrocard out of his wallet before they descended into the subway station. “You really didn’t have to go to any effort.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” said Sam. “You know I’m basically your best man.”

“Yeah, Sam,” said Steve, staring sheepishly at the dirt-greyed squares that tiled the platform floor, “about that.”

The pair spent most of the 30-minute subway ride in what Steve could acutely feel was a cold silence. He attempted to say something just before they crossed over into Manhattan.

“Don’t,” said Sam, resolutely avoiding eye contact. A group of breakdancers hopped on at Canal Street, but quickly ceased their acrobatics, apparently sensing the futility of trying to cut through the tension in the train. It clack-clack-clacked on without another word, until the train pulled into the 72nd Street station.

“Wade Wilson,” protested Sam, standing just before the doors swished open. “Wade, who’s somehow my cousin apparently, Wilson, is your best man.”

“Hey,” countered Steve, catching himself on the click-clunk of the turnstile, while Sam carried on several paces ahead, “I wasn’t planning on having any best men at all, but... you try saying no to that face!”

“I don’t think I’d have had a problem saying no to Wade.”

“Just out of curiosity, what was my bachelor party going to be?”

“We’re going for a run in the park, and because you’re the groom-to-be I was gonna let you win,” said Sam, doing enthusiastic lunges with one foot perched against a robust concrete bench, “then I was going to take you to the natural history museum, so you could show me which dinosaurs you used to be friends with back in the day.”

“Hilarious,” replied Steve, rolling his eyes, “but I’ll allow it.”

“And then I was gonna take you to Beard Papa’s for a damn eclair,” Sam continued, picking up the pace as the concrete transitioned to grass and comfortably springy running mulch. “But my cousin’s your best man, so you can have bupkes.”

“Look,” said Steve, as best he could while trying very hard to slow his pace enough to keep from getting too many paces ahead of Sam, “what if I make you also my best man, and have two best men?”

“Man, I wasn’t gonna not do your dumb bachelor party,” conceded Sam, surging forward to overtake Steve by a few crucial steps, “but if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you buy the eclairs.”

\---

They turned in early, as was prudent, given the enormity of the day that lay before them. 

“Steve,” asked Bucky, as Steve rolled onto his side, tucking cozily under their soft comforter, “do you really think an extra two hours’ beauty sleep is gonna make a dramatic improvement.”

“Can’t hurt to try, can it?” replied Steve. “Anything to give your ugly old mug a head start.”

“Yeah, like you’re one to talk.” Bucky’s feet were still cold. He tucked the bottom edge of the comforter beneath them, as though he were the filling of a soft blanket burrito. Steve shifted a leg in his direction, pressing his warm calves against Bucky’s icy toes. “Jeezus, Rogers, you trying to give yourself pneumonia or what?”

Steve chuckled. “I think I can handle it,” he said, shuffling the two of them together into a warm hug. “Night, Buck.”

“Night, punk,” Bucky smiled, kissing him goodnight. He rolled onto his back, letting his eyes flutter shut. The little white noises of the house settled in for the night, the city alive and going about its business outside the windows. Turning in early was easy; sleep, on the other hand, with so many things to think about, was less forthcoming. The backs of Steve’s fingers were idly brushing against his side: a slow, familiar caress. “Steve, I know tomorrow night’s our wedding night, but... what if we’re too tired to fuck?”

“So what?” replied Steve. “It’s a big day, and we’ll have an entire lifetime of nights to have sex. And mornings. And lunchtime. And afternoons. Maybe not all in one day.”

“I know that, just…” Bucky smiled, shuffling closer to Steve, “maybe we should have a pre-wedding night tonight, just in case we’re too tired tomorrow.”

Steve chuckled, his hand slipping beneath the soft fabric of Bucky’s old tshirt, warm and strong. “You could just say you’re horny.”

Bucky slid his knee between Steve’s legs. Hard already, he thought. This was gonna be one hell of a pre-wedding night. “Steve, I’ve been horny for you since... 1933.”

“What, non-stop?”

Bucky considered the question. “... yep,” he said.

“But Buck,” Steve said cautiously, stilling his hands. Bucky immediately missed their tender movements. “We’re not married.”

“You’re right,” Bucky agreed, peppering his agreement with kisses along Steve’s softly bearded jawline. “It’d cause a scandal. What would our families think?”

“Oh, the shame.”

“The shaaame,” Bucky agreed, lifting Steve’s shirt undaunted, letting his fingertips linger over the soft scattering of fuzz over his belly.

“We should save ourselves for marriage,” asserted Steve, dragging the heel of his palm over the front of Bucky’s trunks.

“We definitely should,” he somehow managed to say, his core sparkling with mounting pleasure.

“Son of a bitch,” Steve breathed, “why did I have to pick the pyjama pants with the difficult drawstring?”


	5. Saturday

Every once in a while, the lure of the freshest of fresh air, before the fog of the morning commute rolled over the city, won out against the lure of continued lazing about in a warm bed. Thus, Scott found himself (wearing his best shirt and tie under his ant suit, no less) riding a flying ant pal over New York City.

Somewhere in Brooklyn, he spotted a familiar figure on the roof of a charming nineteenth-century townhouse.

“Hey! Hey, Bucky!”

Bucky froze, eyes wide like a startled deer. Oh my god, thought Scott. Deer, buck, Bucky. Was that where he got his name? He looked like he was ready to bolt.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s just me, Scott Lang, you know, Ant-Man,” Scott assured him, easing his ant friend to a careful landing. That was when Scott remembered that he was still the size of an ant, riding a flying ant. He carefully resized himself... and his formicarian companion.

“Gah!” Bucky exclaimed, retreating towards a balcony below. “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” replied Scott, “sometimes I forget when I’m ant-sized.”

Bucky took a long breath, and sat back down. “I’m okay,” he said. “Your friend seems nice.”

“What? Oh! Yeah! Bucky, this is Immanuel kAnt,” said Scott, sitting down beside him. The ant bowed politely. “Immanuel kAnt, this is my friend Bucky.”

“Hey,” said Bucky, visibly calming. He paused for an awkward moment. “Does... does he talk?”

“No, he’s an ant,” said Scott.

Bucky shrugged. “Ask a stupid question,” he said.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the wedding?” Scott asked him. Bucky was wearing what looked to be pyjamas. “You don’t have cold feet, do you?”

“Hell no!” protested Bucky. “But... do you ever feel like. Like you’re still not sure you deserve to live happily ever after?”

“No,” replied Scott. “Kind of. Maybe. Sometimes. What does happily ever after even mean?”

“I dunno,” conceded Bucky.

“Maybe you should ask my ex-wife’s husband.”

“Sorry,” Bucky winced. Scott could hear the garbage truck rolling down the street below, interrupted by the clink-clanking of glass bottles being chucked unceremoniously into its tummy.

“It’s all fine,” Scott assured him. “My life’s pretty great. I can get really really tiny or really really big, I’ve got ants for friends, I’m finally exploring my bisexuality. I’m bi, by the way. Wow. That’s still really fun to say. I’m bi.”

“I’m gay,” replied Bucky. “And I should probably go get dressed. For my wedding. I’m getting married.”

“That’s the spirit!” smiled Scott, punching Bucky on the arm. This was a mistake. Bucky’s arm was a vibranium prosthetic, and hurt Scott’s fragile organic knuckles far more than anything. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

“Thanks, Scott,” Bucky smiled, climbing back down to the balcony.

“Hey, I’m gonna swing by the supermarket on the way to the wedding,” said Scott, climbing aboard Immanuel kAnt’s back. “I think I’m gonna get pita chips. You guys like pita chips?”

“Everybody likes pita chips,” Bucky shouted after him, as Scott shrank back to ant-size, taking off in the general direction of the nearest Whole Foods.

\---

Wanda had placed herself in charge of the flowers for the wedding, but it was not quite an entirely selfless offering. In sharpening her unique talents, she turned her magical ear out to the universe, the earth, and the wilderness, learning from it, harmonious. She let the energies of the plants guide her as she gathered a small arrangement to decorate the chuppah: blushing roses, bright hibiscus, and sweet rosemary. Perfect for a sunny morning and tastefully minimal, she thought.

“Are people gonna want the sea salt pita chips, or the garlic pita chips?”

Scott shouted across from the far end of the aisle, holding aloft two large bags of snacks.

“Is that even a question,” she replied, gathering the makeshift arrangement into her basket.

“Right,” agreed Scott, ostensibly bewildered, and held onto both bags anyway.

“So what’s your gift?” Wanda asked him, as they entered the walk-in hummus fridge.

“Gift?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, “what did you get the groom and... also groom?”

“The text said no gifts,” replied Scott. “We’re not supposed to get gifts.”

“Scott, no,” sighed Wanda. “When someone tells you no gifts, you bring a gift, they tell you you shouldn’t have, you insist, they keep gift.”

“Why would they say no gifts if they want gifts?” he reasoned, gesticulating the pot of taramasalata he was holding with dangerous force. “Maggie and I wanted gifts when we got married, so we made a big list of stuff at one of the expensive department stores and people bought us stuff from it, and we knew exactly how much money everyone spent and I felt really uncomfortable knowing that Maggie’s dad thought I was worth exactly twelve dollars, and then I went to jail so she got to keep pretty much everything in the divorce.”

Wanda did not know what to do with this information.

“I don’t know what to do with this information,” she said.

“Wanna go halfsies on a scented candle?”

\---

It was just as well that weddings were rare in Natasha’s circle of acquaintance, as she did not care for them. It was only out of incredible fondness for Steve that she found herself teetering on an unstable step-ladder, affixing Wanda’s handmade bunting to a chuppah.

“Is it even yet?” she asked. The ground was dry, but soft enough on that day that Natasha could feel the ladder sinking slightly into the earth, leaning with ever increasing urgency to her left.

“You could maybe raise that side just a little,” directed Wanda. Scott was hovering somewhere near the potluck table. The other guests would be arriving soon.

“Just say it’s good enough,” pleaded Natasha.

“It’s fine,” said Wanda, as the ladder collapsed under Natasha’s unbalanced weight, sending her elegantly tumbling through the air and sticking a perfect landing in her black patent Louboutins.

“Thanks.” Natasha brushed herself free of any dust, and gave her hair a restorative tousle.

“Showoff.”

\---

Steve had not smoked since the war. He was reliably informed that it had long since been established that it was actually the worst thing one could do for an asthmatic set of lungs, which it would have been nice to know seventysome-odd years sooner. But his lungs could withstand more these days, and he was, despite himself, nervous. He hunched his shoulders inward behind the tree, as though he was in any way able to make himself small, and took a long, deep drag. Like a vaccuum sucking up dry old dust, he thought, taking another puff anyway. Ugh.

“Who dares make such an unpleasant smell, beneath my ancient canopy?” came a booming voice, the leaves and branches above him shaking. Steve looked up.

“... Groot?”

“You know smoking doesn’t make you cool anymore, right?” Natasha emerged, upside down, from among the foliage.

“Nerves, I guess,” shrugged Steve, grudgingly stubbing out the offending cigarette, flicking its remains into the garbage.

“Gross,” she replied, flipping effortlessly to the ground. “Have a Tic-Tac.”

Natasha produced a small box of mints from her purse, tapping one into Steve’s hand. He took a deep breath, the menthol clearing his mind. He straightened his tie.

“Yeah, that’s probably a better flavour for a kiss, isn’t it?” he said. “Why they hell am I nervous?”

“You know it’s still not too late to change your mind,” she smirked.

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” he said, straightening his tie again.

“Hey, I’m just kidding,” she replied. “Or am I?”

“Please be kidding.”

“Okay, jeez, of course I was kidding,” she scoffed.

“Thank you,” said Steve.

“Or was I?”

“Nat.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Or is it?”

“ _Nat_ ,” Steve warned her.

“I’m happy you’re happy, Steve,” she smiled. Even in heels, she had to lift herself onto tippy-toes to hug him. “It’s good.”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “it is.”

\---

It was a blur; crucially, however, it was the first time in as far back as Bucky could remember that a blur was a good thing.

More people than he recognised were there when he joined Steve under the chuppah. Perhaps it was the way the sun filtered through the canopy, thought Bucky, but Steve, in his best suit and his softest beard, was radiant. It made Bucky’s heart soar.

“Don’t you dare start crying,” he whispered. “If you start crying, then I’m gonna start crying, and if I start crying, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

“I’ll do my best,” nodded Steve, steadfastly staring at the colourful bunting that draped ever-so-slightly lopsidedly over the canopy’s frame, “but I can’t make any promises.”

Bucky was sure the officiant guided them through their promises and vows, and he was sure he said the pretty things he had written down correctly. What Bucky remembered was the grounding warmth of Steve’s hand in his, the soft brush of Steve’s beard against his, and the way his sister cheered louder than anyone (except maybe Wade) when they stomped on the glass together.

They held onto each other when it was done. Bucky’s emotions were doing too many things, as though his life were now so blessed it was more than he knew how to process. His eyes were probably bloodshot with tears, he thought, but if Steve’s little sniffles were any indication, his probably were too.

“We’re married,” whispered Bucky.

“Yeah, we are.” Bucky could feel Steve smiling against his ear. “Buck, are you... are you wiping your eyes on my suit?”

“... no?”

“It’s totally gonna show on this colour,” laughed Steve.

“What are you gonna do, divorce me?” asked Bucky. When they pulled apart, he could see the barrage of cameras and well-wishers waiting to congratulate them. Becca was leading the charge to the picnic table, beside which was a mountain of festively wrapped gifts. “We did say no gifts, didn’t we?”

“We did,” nodded Steve.

“Where the hell are we gonna put all this stuff?”

Steve smiled, linking their arms. “Ah, we’ll figure it out,” he said. “We always do, don’t we... Mr. Rogers?”

“Sure do, Mr. Barnes.”


	6. Epilogue

Tony was uncharacteristically quiet when Bruce happened upon him, set a few metres apart from the party. 

“Tony,” he said carefully, “is everything ok?”

“It’s just... they're so beautiful,” he replied, his voice shaking, dabbing at his eyes with a napkin.

“I know,” Bruce smiled, looking on as the happy couple stumbled sweetly through their first dance. “Those two guys have been through a lot to get here. They've earned some happiness.”

“What? Oh yeah,” agreed Tony. “Sorry. Of course that's what I was emotional about. I didn't just become overwhelmed by the deliciousness of those meatballs with the lingonberry sauce from the picnic.”

“Those would be Thor's,” Bruce beamed proudly.

He neglected to mention that the meatballs came from Ikea, and it was no small feat convincing Thor they would go over better than the fermented herring.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think below, and [come say hello on tumblr](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com)!


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